


In the Off Hours

by sneetchstar



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-09-30 18:54:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 18,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10169549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneetchstar/pseuds/sneetchstar
Summary: Unconnected one-shots of Abbie and Crane doing things in between saving the world.





	1. Flight

“Now, remember, this is _not_ your first time flying,” Abbie quietly says as they walk down the jetway to the plane.

“Yes, of course I remember,” Crane replies, his tone clipped.

He's cranky. He's cranky because he's nervous.

“I'm sorry, but it's just not believable that this would be your first flight. No one, like, literally _no one_ makes the journey from England to the U.S. by boat anymore unless they are piloting a cargo ship,” she says. “Here. Seats 11 A and B. Are you sure you don't want the window?”

“Absolutely not. The idea of being able to—” he briefly shudders, then drops into his seat, “— _see_ outside while we are suspended 30,000 feet in the air inside a giant tin...” he pauses, searching for a word, “… _autobus with wings_ is not appealing to me in the slightest.”

Abbie patiently stares at him through his diatribe. “You done?”

Crane's posture sags slightly. “Yes. For now.”

“Good. I realize you need to let it out, but I’m afraid you'll start freaking out the squares.”

“The _what?_ ”

“You know, the random people who aren't weirdo biblical Witnesses,” she explains, smiling. “Don’t forget to fasten your seat belt,” she adds, gesturing towards his seat.

“Oh,” he softly exclaims, looking down and reaching for the belt. “We're to be strapped in so we stay put should this contraption decide to plummet us to our deaths.”

“Crane...”

“Right,” he acquiesces, securing his seat belt with a click. He watches people file past, finding their seats and stowing their things. “How long will this take?”

“We should be in D.C. in just over an hour,” she answers. “You should appreciate the expediency at the very least. A journey that length would have taken how long during your former time?”

“Several days,” he says, reaching his long fingers into the pocket in front of him and withdrawing the airsickness bag.

Abbie watches his face with amused interest as he reads the words printed on the paper sack. “Let's hope you won't need that,” she says, just as he is gingerly replacing it.

“Iron constitution,” he proudly declares.

“You didn’t get seasick on your journey over here?”

“Not one jot. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of Abraham. Thankfully, we were not on the same ship,” he chuckles.

Abbie laughs loudly, making heads turn. “The Horseman of Death… gets _motion sickness?_ ” she quietly asks through her giggles.

“Well, I seriously doubt he does _now,_ ” Crane amends, his eyes twinkling with mirth as his lips curve up in one of his rare smiles.

“Yeah, I think you need a head to get motion sickness. The workings of the inner ear and all,” she allows. “Too bad though. We may have been able to use that to our advantage somehow.” She looks up at Crane, a crafty smile on her face. “It’s a shame we can’t just send him some food from Los Mariachis,” she snorts, remembering their bout with mild food poisoning the previous winter.

“Oh, dear, I don’t know if I would wish that on my worst enem— wait, yes. Yes, I would,” he agrees.

“Can’t eat without a head either,” she muses. “Oh, well. We have other tools in our arsenal besides motion sickness and tainted burritos.”

“Quite.” He looks around. “When are we going to start _moving?_ I cannot abide this infernal wait.” His fingers twitch idly in his lap.

“Soon. I think they just closed the doors.”

A few minutes later, the plane starts to move, slowly heading towards the runway.

“Miss Mills,” Crane quietly says. His voice sounds different. Smaller. “Abbie.”

His rare use of her first name garners him her full attention. “What's wrong, Crane?” she softly asks. She has a pretty good idea what is troubling him.

“I'm frightened,” he admits.

“I know,” she says. Then, she reaches over and takes his hand, holding it between them on the arm rest. “It'll be fine. I promise.”

“First time flying?” the flight attendant pauses near their row, having noticed Crane's somewhat tense demeanor.

“I am afraid I do not enjoy air travel,” he replies, answering her question without giving himself away.

“Well, it looks like you're in good hands,” she cheerfully answers.

Abbie returns her smile and the flight attendant continues down the aisle.

“Crane, look. That plane is about to take off,” Abbie says, pointing out her window. They've stopped moving, waiting their turn.

Inherently curious, Crane leans across his partner to peer out the small window. He watches, wide-eyed, as the impossibly large aircraft impossibly takes to the sky like it is the biggest bird ever.

“I do not know if that makes me feel better or worse,” he says, turning to look at Abbie.

“I was hoping for better, obviously,” she replies as he straightens up and leans back in his seat. Their plane begins to move again and he tightens his grip on her hand a little.

They taxi into position. The engines kick into high gear. The plane begins to move forward.

Crane clutches Abbie's hand. She looks over to see his eyes are closed as well.

They accelerate, then the thrust of the engines as it propels them skyward presses them back in their seats. His eyes open.

Ichabod Crane is airborne for the first time in his life.

His heart is racing, but he is no longer certain if it is fear, exhilaration, or a combination. Still gripping Abbie's hand, he looks over to see her smiling fondly up at him.

“Oh, my...” he half sighs, half groans. He looks over at her, his eyes now bright with excitement. “That was… _something_.”

 _It's the motorcycle all over again._ “Yeah, take-offs are kind of fun,” she agrees. The plane banks slightly to turn, and the earth stretches below them, clearly visible through the window. “Look,” she says.

He leans across her again, eagerly looking out the window this time. “Amazing,” he whispers.

“Are you sure you don't want the window seat?” Abbie asks, noting Crane's torso is basically in her lap. He is so frequently in her personal space she no longer thinks anything of it. However, she doesn't exactly want to spend the entire flight this way.

“Oh.” He sits up again. “No, this is fine. I do not need to spend the flight staring out the window and ignoring you. Plus, the aisle seat affords more leg room.”

“Not a problem for me,” she replies laughing. The plane levels off, and the flight attendants give the safety speech. Crane is the only passenger who pays attention.

He listens intently when the pilot's voice sounds over the intercom. He drinks ginger ale and eats his packet of pretzels (the flight attendants shamelessly fawn over him, too). He pretends not to be troubled by the few pockets of mild turbulence. He peruses the Sky Mall catalog, alternating between being intrigued and horrified, coveting items while simultaneously decrying their decadence and frivolity.

Crane periodically leans across Abbie to look out the window. At one point, she threatens to use his back as a table.

Eventually, she gives up. He won’t switch seats but is fascinated by the view. She simply rests one hand on his back as he leans over her, smiling despite herself at his childlike enchantment. She is surprised to discover she has missed this aspect of his personality. He’s been in this time for three years and has almost completely acclimated, so his moments of discovery have become increasingly fewer and farther between.

He glances over and catches her smiling at him. “I did it again,” he murmurs, straightening up. “Forgive me.”

“It’s all right,” she says. “I was simply smiling because it’s been so long since I’ve seen you like this. All excited about something new. I… I’ve missed it,” she admits.

His cheeks color slightly and he looks down for a moment, then back to her face. “Sometimes I wish I could take you back to my era – provided I could ensure your complete safety, of course – and return the favor. Show you my world. Watch your face light up with discovery.” He smiles down at her for a moment, then adds, “Though, I do not know what I could show you that would be impressive to an independent woman of the 21st century.”

“I’m sure you’d come up with something, Crane,” she says, patting his hand. He turns it and takes hers in it again, not because he needs to, but because he wants to.

The pilot’s voice comes over the intercom again, and soon, they are beginning their descent.

“Miss Mills, may I…?”

“Sure,” she says, releasing his hand so he can lean across her to look out the window once more.

Crane stays pasted to the window until the drop in altitude allows them to feel the speed at which they are traveling. Then, he returns to his seat and clutches Abbie’s hand once again.

He startles slightly when the wheels hit the ground, and she grins at him. “This is the man who didn’t flinch when we tried to blow up the horseman’s skull in the tunnels?”

“I was expecting the explosion,” he answers, attempting to sound haughtier than he actually feels. “I was not expecting the landing of this aircraft to be so… _jarring._ ”

“I understand. To be honest, I kind of jumped, too,” she admits, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Gravity is a cruel mistress indeed,” she chuckles. “Though, as landings go, that was a pretty smooth one.”

His eyes widen. “ _That_ was smooth?”


	2. Tattoos

“Tattoos?” Abbie asks, raising her eyebrows suspiciously at Big Ash.

The large Shawnee nods once, absently scratching his little dog behind its ears. “They will help protect you. Our shaman, Frank, will paint them on, and I’ll take you to my guy.”

“Your… _guy?_ ” Crane asks

“My tattoo guy. He’ll make Frank’s drawings permanent.”

“Splendid,” Crane replies, sounding less than thrilled.

“Can we have a minute?” Abbie asks, and Big Ash nods. She pulls Crane aside and says, “You know what tattoos are, right?”

He straightens his back. “Of course, I do. They are one of the most ancient forms of… artwork?” he pauses, unsure of how to define exactly _what_ tattoos are.

“It's called 'body modification' now,” Abbie supplies.

“Yes. In any case, they date back to prehistoric times. I’m given to understand they are quite painful to receive, and the recipient can become quite ill if the tattoo is not properly done.”

“Well, they still hurt… at least, that’s what Jenny said when she got hers,” Abbie starts.

“Miss Jenny has a tattoo?”

“Yeah. Probably shouldn’t mention I told you. She was only 18 when she got it, and… well, it’s not in a place _you’ll_ ever see, so it’s best to just pretend you don’t know.”

“Oh, dear,” he exclaims, his eyes wide.

“Anyway, getting them is a lot safer than in years past,” Abbie continues. “I’ve been in a few tattoo parlors, you know, for work. Everyone wears surgical gloves and all the implements are sterile.”

“That’s somewhat reassuring.”

They stand, staring at one another for a long moment.

“I think we should do it,” Abbie suddenly proclaims. “I mean, what do we have to lose? I’d rather accept even the _possibility_ of help than turn it down, you know?”

Crane slowly nods. “Our mission is about faith is it not?”

“Exactly,” she says, poking him in the chest.

“Then, we are in agreement.” He holds his hand out. “Shall we seal this accord?”

She snorts a small laugh and grasps his large hand with her small one, then turns towards Big Ash. “Okay. We’re in. I have one condition though.”

“What’s that?” Big Ash asks.

“Mine can’t be in a place that will show when I'm in uniform. It’s against police regulations,” she explains.

Big Ash looks over at Frank, the shaman. The older man nods. “Okay,” Big Ash says. “We should go inside.”

Abbie and Crane follow the two men inside Frank’s house. It is small, but tidy. Very nondescript.

“Please sit,” Frank speaks for the first time, indicating his kitchen table. They sit. “Lieutenant Mills, I have a vision for you already, so I will do yours first,” he continues, pointing at a high cupboard. Big Ash sets his dog on the floor, opens the cupboard, and takes out some supplies, handing them to the shorter man. The dog trots to a pillow in the corner, curls up, and immediately goes to sleep.

Frank pulls a chair close to Abbie and places a warm hand on her left shoulder blade. “Okay?” he asks.

“For the placement?” Abbie asks. The shaman nods. “Yes, that’s fine.” She pulls her sweater off over her head, smiling when she notices Crane politely avert his eyes. “I have a tank top on, Crane. It’s fine. Besides, you’ve already seen me in my bra…” she teases, recalling their dream-trip together to vanquish the Sandman.

“Ah, Ro'kenhronteys,” Frank comments. “Seamus informed us of his presence in your dreams.”

“Well, I got rid of him,” Abbie says, moving the strap of her tank out of the way. She jumps a bit at the first touch of cold ink from the older man’s marker against her skin, and wonders what he is drawing. _It feels kind of big._ “To be honest, I’m kind of grateful to him.”

“As you should be,” Frank says. “His purpose is not to do evil. His purpose is to drive man to confront the evil within himself.”

“Yeah, I totally get that now,” Abbie allows. “May I ask what you are drawing?”

“The fox, cunning and clever,” he replies, continuing to move the marker across Abbie's shoulder in sure, neat strokes. “Wise. Adaptable.”

Crane leans over and looks, staying out of the shaman’s way and light. “It is beautiful, Miss Mills.”

“What does it look like?” Abbie asks, curious.

“It isn't finished yet,” Frank remarks.

“It's rather stylized,” Crane says. “The fox is more... implied than strictly drawn. She is curved, her tail mid-swoop as though she is in motion. It's quite beautiful.”

Abbie smiles. _At least, it's pretty._

“One last detail,” Frank says.

“Ah, an arrow,” Crane comments with an approving nod, watching as the other man draws an arrow clenched in the fox's mouth.

“The arrow is the symbol of protection,” Big Ash says, handing bottles of water to Abbie and Crane.

“Gotcha,” Abbie replies, understanding. “Am I done?” she asks.

“Yes,” Frank answers. He stands, stretches, takes a drink from a third bottle Big Ash has set out for him, then turns to Crane. He studies him a long moment, then closes his eyes.

“Your friend is more complicated than you,” Big Ash quietly tells Abbie. “That doesn't mean he's a more complex person though. It just means he's more difficult to read.”

“Funny, I have no problem reading him at all,” Abbie drily comments.

Big Ash snorts a laugh, then says, “Your spirit shines brightly. His must be... fragmented. Or something.”

“That actually makes sen—”

“You are ancient, sir,” Frank suddenly says, opening his eyes and staring hard at Crane. “Much older than you appear.”

“Yes,” Crane replies, knowing there is no point in hiding the truth from this man.

“Hmm. Yes. Of course,” the shaman mutters to himself, then drags his chair and supplies over beside Crane. He places his hand over Crane's left pectoral muscle. “No. This place has been touched by evil,” he mutters. Crane nods, knowing the shaman is referring to the scar left by the horseman. “Here,” Frank places his hand on Crane's left forearm, “or, here.” He moves his hand to his upper arm, on the outside of Crane's shoulder.

“Miss Mills?” Crane asks, deferring to his partner.

“No. _You_ must choose,” Frank says.

“Shoulder,” Crane says after a moment. Then, he pulls his shirt off.

Frank's eyes take in the younger man's scar for a moment. “Hmm.” That is all he says before he begins to draw.

“Where is the bathroom?” Abbie asks Big Ash. “I want to try to see mine.”

Big Ash points the way, then turns to watch Frank draw.

The distant sound of Abbie's voice saying, “Cool,” reaches them, then she returns, moves her chair so she can see, and sits.

“Is that a wolf?” she asks.

Frank nods. “The wolf, intelligent and eloquent,” he explains. “Compassionate. Loyal.”

Crane smiles approvingly. He looks over to see Abbie doing the same. She gives him a thumbs-up, which he returns in his customary stiff manner. Abbie chuckles fondly at him.

Frank works for a few minutes, not disturbed by the fingers of Crane's right hand occasionally twitching and flexing.

“It's really cool, Crane,” Abbie finally says, breaking the silence. “Similar to mine, but more masculine. Shorter ears and narrower tail, obviously,” she smiles at him. “If you had picked your forearm, you'd be able to see it better,” she says, grinning at him.

“We would have had to shave his arm first,” Big Ash remarks. “So, it's probably good he didn't.”

Abbie laughs. Crane makes a noncommittal grunt.

A minute later, Frank declares Crane “done”. Crane raises his arm and looks at the drawing. “Splendid,” he declares, noting his wolf also has an arrow in his mouth.

“All right,” Big Ash says, standing. “I sent a text to my guy. He'll be expecting us.”

“All right,” Abbie says, sounding braver than she feels. “Can we have a drink first? Like, a _real_ drink?”

“Yes,” Crane agrees.

“Nope. Any reputable tattoo parlor will not ink a drunk person,” Big Ash says. “And, Jon is reputable.”

“Worth a try,” Abbie sighs.

Crane puts his shirt on and they head out.

On the way over, Abbie teaches Crane Rock, Paper, Scissors, then they play best of three to decide who has to go first.

Abbie loses.

xXx

Crane holds her hand the entire time, talking to her, trying to keep her mind off the pain.

“It feels like he's carving into me with a knife,” she comments.

“Ah. Something to look forward to then,” Crane replies with a sigh.

“Keep talking, Crane,” she says.

When it is Crane's turn, a bandaged Abbie sits nearby. He insists he doesn't need her to hold his hand. When Jon starts working, the fingers of his right hand are so active, Abbie reaches out and takes his hand just to still them.

“Your earlier description is remarkably accurate, Lieutenant,” he quietly says, tightly holding her hand.

She smiles. “Sorry, Crane. I don't have your gift for storytelling,” she says.

He nods. “Will you... will you sing to me?” he asks.

Abbie looks around the tattoo parlor. It's after hours, and the only people inside are Crane, Abbie, Jon, and Big Ash. And, Big Ash's little dog, curled in the large man's lap.

She looks back at Crane, takes a deep breath, and begins to sing.


	3. Injury

“Let me see,” Abbie says, pulling his hand towards her to inspect the gash on his arm.

“I do not require first aid, Miss Mills-OW!” Crane protests, his brows knit so tightly together they appear to have joined.

“It's only peroxide, Crane.”

“You took me by surprise,” he insists, looking down at the wound. His eyebrows shoot up, nearly reaching his hairline. “Is it _supposed_ to do that?” he asks, watching the peroxide fizz as it reacts with the blood.

“Yes,” she confirms. “It's cleaning it.” She dabs it with some cotton, then tosses the bloodied wad into the trash bin at her feet.

He hisses in discomfort when she gently prods the wound, checking for any more dirt.

“Sorry,” she mutters. “For being a soldier, you seem kind of...”

“What?” he challenges.

“Wimpy,” she answers, her face breaking into a grin.

Crane straightens his back and looks down his nose at his petite partner. “Might I remind you that I was struck in the chest with a broad-axe and _bled to death_?”

“All the more reason for you to stop acting like a child. You didn't hear me whining when you popped my finger back in its socket, did you?” she asks, holding up her left hand, its pinky bruised and swollen.

“No, but I still bear the marks your fingernails left in my arm in your endeavor to remain needlessly stoic,” he reminds her, barely holding back his smug smile as he raises his other arm to show her.

She twists her lips into a scowl to prevent herself from sheepishly grinning. She fails. “Sorry,” she apologizes, reaching over to rub the little crescent moons marks on his arm.

He places his hand over hers, gingerly moving his injured arm. “Do not give it a thought, Lieutenant.”

“Let's get this arm wrapped up,” Abbie says, carefully setting his arm back on the table and reaching for the gauze.

He winces at one point.

She doesn't say a word.


	4. Mistletoe

Crane keeps to the edges of the party, feeling slightly out of place among the police officers. Sheriff Reyes officially brought him back into the fold – and onto the payroll – as a consultant eight months ago, and he is now, once again, allowed free rein in the station.

Nevertheless, he still feels somewhat “outside”. He scans the crowd, glass of punch lightly held in his hand, and his eyes land on Abbie, talking with another officer. She laughs, and while he cannot hear it over the noise of the festive gathering, he knows it so well he can hear it in his head.

He spies a sprig of mistletoe hanging from a beam in another part of the room. _That seems rather inappropriate for a party with one's coworkers._ Nevertheless, he spies people getting caught again and again beneath the poisonous sprig – probably fake – and dutifully share a kiss with the person nearest them.

The receptionist, Wendy, and an officer whose name he has not yet caught. Jenny and Hawley (though he mainly wonders how they got invited, if they were, in fact, invited). Two laughing male detectives being good sports about it. Even Reyes receives a peck on the cheek from one of the officers.

He has noticed his partner has steered clear of the mistletoe all evening.

Crane's glass is empty, so he makes his way to the buffet table, stopping briefly for another delightful mini-quiche and a delicious cracker stacked with slices of sausage and cheese.

The punch is a sweet, shockingly red concoction comprised of what he has learned is something called Hawaiian Punch combined with ginger ale, a beverage he likes very much and regularly keeps in his refrigerator at the cabin.

He takes a drink of his fresh cup of punch and nearly coughs with the surprising realization that the beverage now tastes significantly more... _rummy_ than previously.

“Needed to liven up the party a little,” Jenny mutters, just behind him.

“Miss Jenny, you spiked the punch?” Crane turns and looks down at the younger Mills sister. He's not _really_ asking.

“Just a little,” she says, flashing the corner of a flask from the inside of her vest.

He takes another sip. “I would venture it is more than 'a little',” he says, then drinks again. “Though, I will admit, it is an improvement. Do take care that Sheriff Reyes does not catch you.”

Jenny laughs, takes a mini egg roll from the table, then disappears.

Crane wanders, searching for his partner. He may be able to see for miles at his height, but she is tiny and difficult to spot amongst the other partygoers.

“Ah, there you are,” her voice reaches his ears.

“I have been looking for you, and here _yo_ _u_ have found _m_ _e_ ,” he smiles and walks to where she is standing about five yards away, near the door.

She glances at his drink, gently lifts it from his hand, and takes a sip. “Thought so,” she says, handing it back to him.

“How is it Miss Jenny and Mr. Hawley garnered invitations to this event?” Crane asks.

“Yeah, I don't think they did,” Abbie says. “Reyes hasn't spotted them yet,” she says, taking a step or two in various directions and arching her neck to look for Jenny, Hawley, or Reyes. Suddenly, she stops, her eyes pointed at the ceiling. “Oh.”

Crane follows her gaze upwards, and sees they somehow landed beneath the mistletoe. “Um, yes.”

She looks at him, remembering the first time this happened, two years ago. Then, they simply shrugged and ignored it – after a brief soliloquy from Crane about mistletoe and how it was the “bane of pretty maids”. Then, he was still very much a married man, devoted to his wife.

Now, as Abbie looks up at him, she wonders what he's going to do about it. Now, he seems tongue-tied, a slight flush on his cheeks that _might_ be attributed to the rum or the warmth of the room. Now, he is a widower.

“Well, then,” he finally says, leans down, and aims for Abbie's cheek.

At the last second, she turns her face and meets his lips with her own. He startles for just a moment. Another moment later, the kiss is broken.

“Abbie?” he asks, his voice breaking with confusion over her actions and the unexpected thrill of her lips against his.

“Well, if we're going to do this mistletoe thing, we may as well do it right, hey?” she asks, a small smile stealing over her face.

He stares at her, words having flown from his brain. All he can think about is her lips. He shakes his head, attempting to clear the cobwebs. “Indeed,” he weakly answers. Then, hoping he is interpreting her words and demeanor correctly, he offers her his hand.

She takes it, sliding her small one into his.


	5. Family

Katrina died one week before Christmas, giving her life to stop her son, Jeremy, from unleashing a league of demonic soldiers into the world. Jeremy was vanquished, but he went neither quietly nor alone.

So, one week before Christmas, Ichabod Crane loses his wife and his estranged son. He spends that week closeted away in the cabin, spurning the outside world, using the brief respite from the apocalypse to mourn.

He does not answer his phone. After the first day, Jenny stops calling. After the third day, Abbie stops leaving voicemails. The fourth day, she sends a text that simply reads _I am here for you. Always._

“Are you sure?” Jenny asks her sister. She can hear the sounds of Abbie's car driving down the highway in the background.

“Yes. He’s been hiding too long. It’s Christmas Eve, and he shouldn’t be alone. No one should,” Abbie says.

“You’re leaving _me_ alone,” Jenny counters.

“Pssh, don’t play. I know you’re on Hawley’s boat,” Abbie says.

“How do you know that?”

“Saw your truck when I passed the docks. And, I will remind you that I _did_ call before I left the station to ask if you wanted to come along, and you said 'No'.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Jenny says, laughing.

“How much eggnog have you had?”

“Not enough,” she sighs.

“Right. Don’t drive home,” Abbie warns. “Your sister’s a cop, remember?”

“Like she’d let me forget. And, don’t worry, I have no plans to drive anywhere tonight,” she answers.

Abbie hears some very Hawley-like noises of agreement in the background and allows herself to roll her eyes, knowing her sister cannot see her.

“I hear you rolling your eyes over there,” Jenny says.

Abbie laughs, caught. “See you tomorrow. Tell Hawley ‘Merry Christmas’ for me, and watch out for that mistletoe. He probably has a rifle loaded with it, or something. No, wait, I bet he has one of those mistletoe belt buckles.”

Jenny laughs. “He says it keeps demons away.”

Abbie knows that mistletoe is, in fact, an ancient talisman against evil, but she just laughs with her sister.

“Hey, let me know how Tall, Dark, and British is doing, okay?” Jenny asks, suddenly serious. “Send me a text.”

“I will,” Abbie promises.

The lieutenant pulls her truck up to the cabin. It appears completely dark inside. _Not a good thing._ She has a key to the front door, but she knocks out of courtesy, something she now realizes, with some chagrin, she has never done. Even when Katrina was living there, she would simply let herself in.

When Crane doesn't answer after the third knock, she tries the knob. It's locked. She's getting really cold, so she pulls the key out of her pocket and quietly lets herself in.

“Crane?” she calls. She doesn't yell; it is as still as a tomb inside the cabin. “Ichabod?” She looks around and sees little more than a coffee mug on the counter. It is a white mug with “I ♥ FOUNDING FATHERS” printed on the side.

Caroline's mug. Abbie wondered what had happened to it. She sadly smiles and walks to the kitchen. She looks inside the mug and sees coffee residue in the bottom. It's not completely dry. _He's drinking coffee, but little else. Better than rum, I suppose._

Abbie walks to the half-open bedroom door. “Ichabod?” she softly calls, pushing the door open.

He's lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. He is wearing the same shirt and trousers in which she last saw him, but he is barefoot. His coat is thrown haphazardly across the chair, his boots are nowhere near one another, and his socks are in two crumpled heaps beside the bed.

“Oh...” she exhales, sitting on the bed beside him. She takes his hand and he looks at her.

“Miss Mills,” he rasps. “Why are you here?”

“It's Christmas Eve, Crane. You haven't returned any of my calls for almost an entire week. I think I'm allowed to be worried enough about my partner to come check on him, don't you?”

He manages a wan almost-smile. “Forgive me,” he says.

“Hey, it's fine. Really. I can't pretend to know what you're going through, but... you know you don't have to go through it alone, right?”

“I did receive your text missives,” he says. “Thank you.”

Abbie's initial reaction is _Then,_ _why didn't you reply?_ but she bites it back. _Not about you._ “When did you last eat?”

“I do not know.”

“You had coffee.”

“Only after the rum ran out.”

Abbie stares at him for a long moment, deciding. “Get up, Crane,” she says, tugging on his hand, still held between hers.

He flops his head to the side and _looks_ at her.

“I'm serious. Get. Up. You need a shower and food.”

“I _need_ to be left alone. For that is what I am: Alone. Utterly alone. The only family I had is gone. I am 265 years old, and I should be as dead as the rest of my family.”

 _There it is._ Abbie lets him rant, knowing it is good for him to get it out. She tugs his hand again, and he sits up. She blinks at the scent that wafts up with him. _Definitely nee_ _ds_ _a shower. And,_ _fresh bedding._ “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

“You're wallowing.”

“Excuse me?”

“Wallowing,” she repeats, drawing the word out. “It means—”

“I am quite aware of what it means, Lieutenant,” he snaps. “It—” Her smile robs him of his words. “You were deliberately goading me.”

“Yep. Now. Get your _buns_ off of this bed and into the shower or so help me I will fill a bucket and pour it over you,” she insists.

He scowls. “This is your plan? To come here and... brow-beat me out of my state of mourning?”

“You weren't mourning, Crane. You were _wallowing_. You were feeling sorry for yourself, and no good ever comes from that.”

He opens his mouth to protest, a single finger raised. Then, he abruptly snaps his mouth closed and lowers his hand.

“Ichabod,” Abbie starts, softer now, “I'm sorry Katrina and Jeremy are gone. I know we always say there is another way, but... Katrina's sacrifice _was_ the other way this time. You know it is true. And,” she continues, pulling both his hands until he stands up, “she has probably been looking down at you this entire time ready to... turn you into a newt or something. She would want you to honor her memory and sacrifice by _not giving up._ ”

He hangs his head and slowly nods, his hair hanging about his face in a lank, greasy curtain.

“You may recall I know a little something-something about not having family,” she says. He nods again. “I have Jenny now, but for a long time, I was as alone as you, at least from a blood-relative standpoint. And, you know what I did?”

“You turned to a life of delinquency,” he comments.

“Yeah, for a little while. But, after that? I _found_ me some family. Which is what people like us have to do, Crane. Remember that first Thanksgiving? Remember our toast in the Archives?”

“'To finding family',” Crane says, lifting his head slightly to look down at his partner.

“Now, you may have meant my learning about being related to Grace Dixon and your learning you had a son, but I _also_ took it to mean us. You and me. As _you_ said, we found one another. Improbable as it seems, we did. You are my partner in this... thing. Whatever this mess is. Like it or not, you and I... we're family. _We are fami_ _ly_ , and I love you. That's why I'm here. Because, I couldn't stand the thought of you being here, in the freaking _dark_ ,” she reaches over and flips the switch on the wall, “on Christmas Eve, _alone._ ”

Crane blinks, his eyes unaccustomed to the light. A few tears fall with the action, but he does not hide them. “Thank you, Abbie. You are correct. There is no one, in this time or any other, I would rather call 'family' than you,” he says, giving her a true smile. “You are dearer to me than you likely realize, and I have been remiss in not telling you so more often.”

“You're welcome,” she says. “Now. Are you hungry?”

“I haven't properly eaten in days,” he admits.

“Thought so. I didn't think it was possible for you to get any skinnier, but...” she says, poking him in the stomach.

He jumps and captures her hand. “Point made, Miss Mills,” he says. “I shall see about this shower now I think.”

“Good,” she says. Then, before he escapes, she wraps her arms around him in a hug. He returns the gesture, his cheek coming to land on the top of her head as he holds her against his lanky body.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

She gives him an extra squeeze, then releases him.

xXx

Crane emerges 20 minutes later, dressed in the comfortable modern clothes he only occasionally wears, usually for sleep or when Abbie manages to get him to do yoga with her.

“Something smells wonderful,” he says. Abbie turns. “Unlike myself earlier, I am afraid. I realized how odorous I was once enclosed in the small bathroom, and I apologize.”

“You were pretty funky,” she says, noting he looks more like himself. “But, I'm a cop and a Witness. I've experienced worse.”

“Indeed,” he says, padding over to the kitchen table.

“I'm making spaghetti because that's all I could cobble together with what you have. You've let your provisions run low again,” she says.

“Sorry,” he apologizes.

“Your sheets are in the wash,” she tells him, turning back towards the stove to take the pot of noodles off to drain.

“I saw you had removed them. Thank you.”

In minutes, dinner is ready and they are sitting across from one another at the table. “You gonna be okay?” she asks.

He nods. “I think so, yes. Yes. I will be 'o-kay'. Katrina would want me to soldier on. _You_ want me to soldier on.”

“Ah, but what do _you_ want?” she asks, pointing her fork at him.

“I want to soldier on as well,” he affirms.

“Good. Have some more bread,” she pushes the garlic bread at him, and he takes another piece.

Abbie finishes eating well before Crane does, so she sits with him until he has his fill. After three helpings, he sets his fork on his plate.

“Better?” she asks.

He ponders her for a moment, then reaches across the table and takes her hand. “Abbie,” he softly says, “I am sorry for what I said before.”

“What was that?” she asks, not sure what he means.

“When I said I was alone. That I had no family.” His thumb skates across her knuckles. “I am not alone, because I will always have you. It is like you said: we must _find_ family when we do not have blood relatives on which to rely.”

“I wasn't offended. I knew where your head was,” she says.

“I am fortunate _yo_ _u_ did because I had momentarily misplaced it,” he replies, smiling.

“It's what we do, Crane. When I falter, you prop me up. When you falter, I do the same for you.”

He looks at her small hand in his, then lifts it to his lips, placing a small, chaste kiss on her knuckles. “A friend such as you is a rare gift indeed,” he says.

She smiles at him. “You, too, Crane. You, too.”

As they clean up dinner, it feels like the pieces are clicking back into place. Crane is returning to himself bit by bit. _It'll take some time, but he'll get there._

Later, as they sit on the couch together in front of the fire, something comes back into Crane's memory. “A newt?” he turns and asks Abbie.

She chuckles. “Oh, have I got a movie for you to watch...”


	6. Thud

“Come on, Lieutenant, put your back into it!” Crane goads, watching as, once again, Abbie unsuccessfully tries to split a log.

She lowers the hatchet, letting it dangle from her hand. “Say that one more time and it’ll be your skull I’m splitting, not this log.”

“Oh, pish posh,” he waves her off, not believing her threat for one second. She glares at him. He raises his eyebrows and looks pointedly at the log.

She makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a growl, turns around, raises the axe, then drives it down with all her might.

The log splits with a satisfying _crack_ and the two pieces fall to the ground with a _thud, thud._

“Well done!” Crane exclaims. “See, you simply needed sufficient motiva—all right, then, why don’t we go inside and have a nice cup of tea…” he says, his comment changing boats mid-stream when he sees the murderous glint in his partner’s eyes as she turns to face him again, axe still in her hand.

Abbie calmly rests the hatchet against the large stump and sweetly says, “Tea sounds lovely, thank you.”

Crane’s jaw drops as he watches her saunter to the cabin. “Miss Mills? So… you were just having me on then?” She climbs the steps to the porch. “Abbie?”

The door closes with another _thud_ before Crane’s feet start moving.


	7. Mindless

Abbie's phone buzzes on her desk. She ignores it for a moment, engrossed in a police report she's _trying_ to finish.

It buzzes again, and she lifts her hands from her keyboard, grumbling, “What?” under her breath.

Of course, it is a text message from Crane. He's waiting at her house for an important delivery, and has been texting her on and off during the day.

The first text is a photo of her television screen. The image has crudely-drawn, brightly-colored drawings of a make-believe undersea community.

Abbie sighs. _That's right. He doesn't have cable at the cabin._ The next message is a question.

_I: Miss Mills, what manner of programme is this?_

_A: Looks like SpongeBob SquarePants, and why are you watching it?_

_I: Yes, I know its name, but what is this type of media? Drawings that move._

_A: They're called cartoons, and they are mostly for children._

There is a pause, then he replies.

_I: I like this programme. It's very droll._

Abbie stares at her phone, refusing to believe what she has just read.

Ichabod Crane, scholar and Revolutionary War veteran, is sitting at her house, watching SpongeBob. And, enjoying it.

_A: Have you been drinking?_

_I: Nothing more than a lovely cup of tea._

Abbie sets her phone down on her desk, shaking her head.

_I: I especially like Mr. SquarePants' simple-minded friend, one Patrick Star._

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” she says aloud. A passing officer looks down at her.

“You say something, Mills?” he asks.

“No, sorry, just muttering to myself,” she answers.

_A: I had you pegged as more of a Squidward guy. You know: cranky, thinks he's smarter than everyone else. :)_

_I: I am choosing to ignore your jibe in favor of asking how you are so well-informed about these characters._

_A: I've seen it a few times. It’s not a complex show, so it’s easy to remember things._

_I: That is the beauty of it. So mindless, so simple. Absurdity without purpose._

That's when it hits Abbie: Crane should indulge in something a little mindless once in a while. She thinks it might be good for him.

_A: I get it now. Enjoy._

_I: I intend to. It looks as though I have stumbled upon a “marathon”, so I shall be entertained for the duration of the day. Or, until the parcel arrives._

_A: Good._

Fifteen minutes pass before Abbie’s phone buzzes again.

_I: This Doodle-Bob vignette is by far the most humorous yet._

Abbie’s head falls onto her desk, partly because she’s still reeling from the revelation that Crane likes SpongeBob, but also because she happens to know which one that is. After a moment, she picks up her phone.

_A: FINLAND!_


	8. Microwave

Abbie watches him from the kitchen table, her fingers twitching the way Crane's normally do, as he painstakingly heats some soup on the stovetop. Abbie made a large pot yesterday, and brought a container of it to the cabin for him. He insisted on sharing it with her.

 _I suppose I should be thankful he's not warming it over the fire._ She glances at the cold fireplace, wondering if he has done just this thing when she wasn't around.

She decides she doesn't want to know.

Crane tastes the soup. He makes a face. “Still not warm enough.”

“The microwave would be faster,” she finally says.

He wheels around. “I do not trust that... magic box.”

“It's not magic, Crane,” Abbie patiently explains. “It's science. It's actually considered old technology by today's standards.”

He mutters something she doesn't quite hear, his back to her as he checks the soup once again.

“Didn't catch that,” she says.

He turns around. “I started a fire the last time I tried to use it,” he testily replies.

“Did you put something metal in it?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it.

“Don't be embarrassed. You didn't know,” she says, standing and going to the fridge for a bottle of water. “And, I doubt the instruction manual is still around...” she adds. She starts opening drawers and cupboards, looking for the booklet.

“There are instructions?” he asks. “That would be most helpful. If I might read up on this device, perhaps that would take some of the mystery away.”

“You could try the internet,” she recommends. “If you're willing to tackle the laptop again.”

“Hmm,” he noncommittally grunts. “Ah. The soup is hot.”

Abbie bites back her retort of “It's about time”.

While they eat, a thought pops into Abbie's head. While looking for the microwave manual (which she found), she spotted a few items she's sure Crane hasn't touched since he's been living there. She keeps her thought to herself for the moment.

When they finish, Abbie grabs her phone and pokes around the internet until she finds that for which she is looking. Smiling, she stands and starts gathering ingredients.

“Miss Mills, what are you doing?” Crane asks, suspiciously eyeing the flour, sugar, and cocoa.

“I'm going to show you what you can do with a microwave,” she declares.

He picks up the canister of cocoa, inspecting the label. “How things have changed,” he muses. “Chocolate was a rare treat in my day. Now, it seems it is as commonplace as water.”

“People like their chocolate,” Abbie agrees, measuring ingredients into a coffee mug. “And, when people like something, other people often find ways to make it more accessible.”

“True,” Crane agrees, peering over her shoulder like a vulture in a tree.

“Hmm,” she frowns, and starts opening cupboards again. “Chocolate chips are too much to hope for, I guess. Next time.”

“Are you searching for a yellow bag containing small morsels of chocolate about _so_?” he asks, holding his fingertips about a quarter of an inch apart.

“Yes,” she answers, raising an eyebrow at him.

“There was a partial bag. I ate them several weeks ago,” he admits.

Abbie laughs and places the mug into the microwave. She sets the time for three minutes, then hits _Start._

She stands and watches.

“Does it need supervision?” Crane asks.

“I'm keeping an eye on it because it might not need the full three minutes,” Abbie explains.

As it approaches the two-minute mark, the cake starts to rise above the top of the mug.

“Lieutenant...”

“It's fine. Supposed to do that. Cool, huh?” She looks up at him, smiling.

“Is that smoke?”

“Steam.”

At almost two and a half minutes, she pops the door open, deciding it is probably done. “Voila. An individual cake,” she says, holding it aloft.

He experimentally pokes it with his index finger. “Hmm.”

She moves it to the table, setting it there to cool while she retrieves two forks.

He follows, drawn by the scent of the small confection. _It smells very good._ He finds himself sitting at the table, staring down at it. He pokes it again.

“Here,” she says, handing him a fork.

He immediately digs in, pausing only to blow on the bite of cake before popping it into his mouth. “Oh...” he groans, making the appreciative noise he always does when he discovers a new taste he likes. “Miss Mills, this is divine.”

She smiles and reaches towards the mug with her fork. He looks at her, surprised, and comes just short of pulling the mug towards him in a territorial fashion.

Abbie laughs again.

“You did say 'individual', did you not?” Crane asks, raising an eyebrow at her.

“ _I_ made it,” she answers, lightly poking his hand with the tines of her fork, “and there's enough to share.”

“Those chocolate chips would be a fine addition,” he comments, pushing the mug so it sits halfway between them.

“We'll get some next time we go to the market.”

When the cake is halfway gone, Crane jumps up with an “Oh!”

Abbie watches with interest as he goes to the freezer and withdraws a pint of vanilla ice cream. He holds it up, a question on his face.

“Yes,” Abbie enthusiastically agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5-Minute Mug Cake
> 
> ¼ cup all-purpose flour  
> ¼ cup sugar  
> 2 tablespoons baking cocoa  
> 1 egg  
> 3 tablespoons milk  
> 3 tablespoons oil   
> 3 tablespoons chocolate chips (optional) (not really optional)  
> Small splash of vanilla
> 
> Mix well in a mug and microwave for 3 minutes (my microwave does it in about 2:20). It's going to look like it's trying to escape from the mug. Don't worry; it's fine. Let cool a bit before consuming. Technically big enough for two, but... no. Also, good topped with vanilla ice cream. And, caramel sauce.


	9. Fear

Crane has never heard Abbie scream before. Not like this. He's heard her yell, shout, and cry, but never scream.

And, they aren't even in the middle of a battle. They are going behind the cabin and gathering firewood to bring inside.

It was just past sunset, and there were still some last vestiges of light coming from the western horizon, so they didn't bother with flashlights as they trekked out to collect some logs for their evening in.

She promised him something called a “s'more” and a movie called _The Court Jester_ that she assured him he would enjoy. “It's an old movie, but a classic. Danny Kaye is amazing,” she said, pointing to a man on the cover: a tall, lanky fellow not unlike her partner, but clean-shaven with reddish hair.

Noting the state of the wood box, they went outside to load their arms and bring in some of the logs Crane (and one or two by Abbie) had painstakingly split over the last year.

Neither of them had anticipated bats.

In truth, Crane had never really given them a thought. They were as innocuous as any other small, harmless woodland creature.

As they walked out towards the wood pile, a half-dozen of the flying rodents swooped across their path, low enough to be seen and almost felt.

Abbie screamed.

Then, she froze.

Crane nearly bumps into her. “Lieutenant?” he asks.

She doesn't reply. She doesn't move.

“Miss Mills?” he tries, quieter, as he moves around in front of her.

“No.” Her voice is quiet and tremulous.

“No?” he repeats.

“I am not... no. I... I can't...”

Crane takes in her posture and appearance, trying to get a handle on the situation. She's rooted to the spot, eyes wide and fearful, focused on nothing. “Abbie,” he quietly says, “are you...” he pauses, realizing the question “Are you all right?” is ridiculously unnecessary. _Of course, she is not all right._ “What is wrong?” he asks instead.

She opens her mouth, closes it, squeezes her eyes shut, and shakes her head in a short, quick negative gesture.

It is growing darker outside, and if it is the bats that unnerved her, more darkness is not going to help. He knows he needs to keep talking to her. To get her to _start_ talking to him. He slowly, gently, raises his hands and places them on her shoulders. He swallows hard when he feels her body trembling. “Abbie, look at me,” he says, his voice gentle, but firm. She opens her eyes, but doesn't exactly obey. “Please, Abbie. Let me help you. Talk to me.” He moves one hand to her chin and delicately lifts it as he bends to put his face in her line of sight, essentially forcing her to look at him. “Abbie.”

Her eyes finally snap to his and come into focus. “Crane...” she starts, her voice hoarse. She blinks. “The... bats... purgatory...” she pauses as a tear slips from her eye. “Moloch's lair... in Franklin's tunnels...” She closes her eyes and another tear escapes. “I... I... can't.”

Suddenly, everything makes sense. He remembers the swarm of bats that surprised them while they were searching for the Kindred and how Abbie was unsettled afterwards. He tried to draw her out, to get her to speak about her ordeal in purgatory. She did, but he knew she wasn't telling him everything. Then, they got so distracted by finding their prize, the subject was dropped.

“It's all right,” Crane says, his voice quiet and soothing. He delicately swipes the tears from her cheek with his fingers. “Go back inside. I will get the wood.”

“I _can't_ ,” she repeats, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You... can't move?” he asks, still crouched in front of her. His back is beginning to ache, so he drops to one knee, now looking up at her, his hands holding hers.

She shakes her head. “I... I don't know what to _do_ ,” she cries, another tear sliding down her face. “I can't go forward. Can't go back,” she whispers.

“What is holding you in place?” Crane asks.

Abbie takes a long, shuddering breath. “Fear,” she admits. “I'm afraid, Crane. Not really of the... bats themselves, but... what they represent.” Suddenly, the words come in a flood. “The memories they trigger. The things we've faced. The things we have yet to face...” her voice dies off and her breath hitches in a small sob.

He gives her hands a reassuring squeeze. “It's all right to be afraid, Abbie,” he says. “You do not have to wear your mask of bravery all the time. Least of all with me.”

She closes her eyes again.

More tears fall.

Silence.

Crane, steadfast, remains still, waiting patiently.

Slowly, Abbie opens her eyes. “I'm afraid I'll fall apart if I acknowledge it,” she softly admits.

“You won't,” he says, his voice sure and strong. “I will not allow you to fall apart any more than you will allow it of me.”

Abbie stares up at him, her eyes bright and glassy. “You can't promise that,” she whispers.

“I can, and I will,” Crane assures her. He squares his shoulders, still kneeling, the damp from the earth seeping through his trouser leg. He ignores it. “Remember our bond, Lieutenant,” he repeats the words he said to her just before he left her in Purgatory. It is his absolute belief in that bond that allowed him to walk away. Without it, he would have negated her choice, pushed her to do his will instead. “Hold fast to it, this indescribable _thing_ that tethers us together. Let it be your anchor, let _me_ be your anchor just as you are mine.” He pauses, wiping the tears that are streaming down her face. “This bond we share... it seems to only allow one of us to crumble at a time. It balances us. You are the Yin; I, the Yang.”

She exhales again, blinking rapidly. He begins to feel slightly relieved as she starts to come out of her stupor.

“I promise you, Grace Abigail Mills. You will not crumble under the weight of your memories, your fears. And, if you do, I will be here to take those crumbled pieces and help you put them back together, rendering you stronger than before.”

“That's a pretty big promise,” she says.

“Am I correct in my assumption that you would do the same for me? That you would make the same commitment to me, no matter how large, if our circumstances were reversed?” he asks, angling his head.

She sighs and closes her eyes again. A few more tears break free. “Yes. You're correct. I would,” she answers, looking down at her feet.

“You _hav_ e. I implore you, Abbie. _Trust me_. Lean on me, and let me in.” He gently squeezes her hands. “There are _two_ Witnesses for many reasons, Miss Mills. I believe this is one of those reasons.”

Abbie forces herself to take deep, slow breaths. Crane holds her steady, encouraging her with his eyes. Just as she seems to win her battle with anxiety, another thought darts across her mind, causing her features to crumble and her breathing to become ragged once again.

“Miss Mills?” Crane embraces her, holding her tightly, trying to keep her internal demons from overtaking her. “I’m here, Abbie. I assure you. All will be well.” He waits.

“I'm terrified,” she finally whispers, repeating the words he once said to her. It seems so long ago now, but the memory is still crystal clear.

He slowly, gently releases her, searches her face, and lifts her chin once more. “I know,” he replies. “So am I.”

Abbie exhales and sags a little, her paralysis draining from her.

“I would be more concerned if you were _not_ afraid,” Crane says, standing again. He steps closer, and again, wraps her in his embrace, holding her in what he hopes is a reassuring fashion.

Slowly, he feels her arms come up and circle his back. “Thank you,” she says, her head against his chest.

“You are most welcome, Miss Mills.” He smiles down at her and adds, “Do you know you are the bravest person I have ever met?”

She quietly scoffs at his assessment. “I'm afraid of some stupid bats,” she mutters into his shirt.

“Ah, 'brave' and 'fearless' are not the same thing. Bravery is not the absence of fear. It is acting in _spite_ of it. Fearlessness is often little more than dangerous folly,” he clarifies.

She looks up at him. “The bravest person you've _ever_ met?” she asks, skeptical.

“You doubt my words?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at her. “I speak the truth. Braver than any person, man or woman. Braver than General Washington.”

“Wow, that's high praise indeed,” Abbie says. Her soft laughter eases the knot of worry in Crane's heart. “Thank you.” She gives him a squeeze, pressing her cheek against his chest.

“You are most welcome,” he says, smiling as he loosens his grasp on her.

She takes a deep breath and a hesitant step.

“If you would like to go inside, I will gather the wood,” Crane offers. “I do not mind.”

“No,” Abbie immediately refuses. “I have to. I'll be no good to our cause or to anyone if I cannot function because I'm afraid of a bunch of bats.” She lifts her chin, and takes two halting steps towards the wood, then turns back to look at him. “If I am paralyzed by a specific fear and our enemies find out... they could use it as a weapon against me. Against us. I must do this. I _need_ to do this.”

Crane nods, then watches as she attempts to start walking again. She takes one very small step. He is immediately at her side, offering his hand. She takes it and allows his strength to will her legs to move.

“Honestly, of the two of us, I believe _I_ would have more to fear from a colony of bats,” he says, attempting to ease her worries with humor.

She angles her head at him. “Is that a short joke?” she asks, slowly releasing his hand as they reach the stacks of wood.

“Yes. It was,” he simply says, finding he is keeping a watchful eye for more bats. And, on Abbie. “It was also a _good_ joke, in my opinion.”

They collect as much wood as they can carry and move to return to the house. Despite her brave intentions, Abbie breaks into a run, glancing upward, terrified that more bats will appear. Crane follows as quickly as he can on his long legs, not out of fear for himself, but to stay with his partner,

None come, and soon they are inside and dropping the logs into the wood box.

Abbie flops onto the couch, her breathing shallow, staring while Crane lays the fire. He repeatedly glances in her direction, still keeping watch over her. He is heartened to see her breathing gradually slow and her eyes come back into focus. When Abbie changes her posture to sitting more upright, still relaxed but more alert, he allows himself to breathe easy again.

Once the fire is going well enough to be left alone, Crane turns to see Abbie pulling off her boots. Her face appears less haunted than before, her actions more deliberate, less automatic.

He sighs in relief, but the matter is far from over.

Abbie looks down at the DVD on the table in front of her. She picks it up and waves it at him. “We're still watching this movie,” she declares.

“Yes,” Crane agrees. _She's diverting. I cannot let this continu_ _e_ _._ “But, _after_ you talk to me. I will make us some tea, then we can make your 'some-mores' and you can finally tell me _everything_ you can remember about purgatory. You've been shouldering this burden alone for too long. If we do not get to Mr. Kaye and his jestering until tomorrow, so be it.”

Abbie pauses, taking a deep breath. She closes her eyes so tightly Crane fears she is about to crumble again. She opens her eyes, looks up at him, and sees his expression unchanged. His face is understanding, but resolute, and she realizes he is not going to bend. “All right,” she agrees with a sigh. “Grab those marshmallows.”


	10. Blue

“This is truly a spectacle, Miss Mills,” Crane says, his eyes wide as he gawks at the sights and sounds around him.

“Yeah, well, you're kind of a spectacle yourself, Crane,” Abbie returns, grabbing his hand to keep him moving. She does not want to lose him because he's stopped to stare at a souvenir cart or a “super fan” who has painted himself completely blue.

“Sorry. I had thought the addition of this cap would help me blend in somewhat,” he says, reaching up with his free hand to the brim of the new Mets cap.

She laughs, not having the heart to tell him it makes him look _more_ conspicuous worn with his standard Colonial-era ensemble. “Come on,” she says, tugging his hand. “Our seats are this way.”

Once they are settled, Crane continues to gaze in wonder around the ball park. “The size alone is staggering,” he quietly comments. “Entire battalions could fit on this field with room to spare.”

“Well, men will still be doing battle down there, but no one's going to die,” she answers. “Not usually anyway.”

He looks down at her, alarmed, but relaxes when he sees her grinning mischievously at him. “I believe there was a promise of beer?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

She chuckles and looks around. “We'll wait for a vendor to come by. I don't want to go back out there and wait in line.”

“Very well. We shall wait for a _vendor_.”

Abbie smiles and pats his knee, leaning back in her seat as she looks around at the various food and drink vendors, trying to spot the Beer Guy. _Ugh, he's way over there._

They stand for the national anthem, and Crane doesn't need to be told to remove his hat. He proudly joins in, having learned the song some months ago. Perhaps a little _too_ proudly, given some of the questioning looks from those seated around them.

Abbie glares down a couple of the more avid gawkers until they look away. They don't get to judge her partner. They don't know what he's been through.

Crane doesn't seem to notice, and if he does, he doesn't care.

“Thank you for bringing me here, Miss Mills,” he says after they are seated again. “I did so enjoy the game we watched together last year, and had hoped you would be able to make good on your offer. Though, I will admit, I didn't understand half of what you said at the time.”

“I know, Crane,” she says, laughing at the memory. “And, you're welcome. I'm glad we were able to squeeze this in after the trip to the museum for that codex Jenny found.”

“Indeed,” he agrees. “Oh! The ball is heading... ah, I see.” He smiles and nods as the foul ball is caught by a young boy, who triumphantly holds his prize up for all to see. “I was going to inquire why some of the spectators brought their own gloves.” He looks down at her. “Should we have brought a glove along?”

“Not in these seats,” she answers. “We'd have better luck catching seagulls way up here.”

He looks up, then shakes his head. “You're jesting again,” he decides.

“Beer here!”

“Hey!” Abbie holds her hand up, waving the vendor over. “Two, please,” she says.

“ID?” the man asks, squinting at the youthful face of the lieutenant. As she shows him her license, Crane begins to withdraw his ID as well. “Nah, you're good, Shakespeare,” the man says. Crane mutters something under his breath that sounds something like “ _Grumble grumble_ Hawley _grumble grumble_.”

“You realize that's discrimination and profiling, right?” Abbie asks, holding a $10 bill just out of the man's reach.

“What are you, a cop?” he sarcastically asks, digging two bottles out of his cooler.

Abbie flashes her badge at him, eyebrow raised.

“Yeah, yeah, okay, sorry. You should take it as a compliment, officer. You look young, all right?”

Abbie takes the beers and pays the man. “Just saying,” she says with half a shrug, handing a bottle to her partner.

“Thank you,” Crane says, taking a long drink from his bottle. “When can we get those overpriced hot dogs?”

Abbie laughs. “You really _do_ remember everything,” she says. “We'll get some food in a bit. Watch the game. Let me know if you have any questions.”

He nods. He's seen some baseball, but his lifestyle and lack of interest in television has limited his exposure to most modern sports. He looks around at everything, taking it all in. He loves the big scoreboard with its large screen and helpful information. He loves the variety of people in the seats. Every age and race is represented, all gathered to watch “America's Pastime” of baseball. Most are cheering on the Mets, but here and there he spies a few fans of the opposing team, the Milwaukee Brewers.

“Brewers,” Crane ponders, leaning down to talk to his partner. “Is Milwaukee a place known for brewing beer, or does the name refer to something else?”

“Yep, it's a beer town,” she answers. “I've never been there, but I know that's what the name means.”

“Hmm,” he replies, pondering the possibility of a “beer town”.

Abbie laughs, knowing Crane's affinity for the beverage. “Maybe one day, when all this mess is over, you can go check it out.”

“Only if you accompany me, Miss Mills,” he answers. “I fear, even after seven years, I will still require—what on earth is that?” He stops mid-sentence, pointing.

Abbie follows his long finger and sees him staring with interest at a young man carrying a large, flat piece of cardboard over his head, stuck through with clouds of pink and blue cotton candy on paper cones. She smiles and waves the boy over.

“Blue,” she says, paying, then taking a cone and handing it to Crane.

“Thank you, but what _is_ it?”

“It's called cotton candy,” she says, plucking a small hunk off with her fingers and popping it into her mouth.

“I don't believe I've ever eaten anything this color before,” he comments. Then, he pokes it. “Oh...”

“Just try some. I promise it's not like the energy drink,” she says, laughing.

He reaches out and gingerly attempts to pull a small section from the puff of candy. A much larger section separates than he intended. “Oh, dear...”

Abbie laughs, thoroughly enjoying watching him. She reaches up and snags another piece for herself.

“Um... yes... all right,” he mutters, then takes a bite out of his clump. His eyes widen as it basically dissolves in his mouth, shrinking into a liquefied mass of blue, crystalline goo. “Oh... oh, my... it's... _very_ sweet...”

“I know, right? It's pretty much straight sugar,” Abbie says.

He tries some more, then the rest of the section in his hand. “My fingers are sticky,” he observes.

“Yeah, that's why you shouldn't hold on to it with your fingers for very long,” she says. She watches as he takes another section, this time successful in acquiring the amount he wants. “You like it,” she observes.

“I do,” he admits. “It's fascinating. There is a flavor to it, but I cannot discern what it is supposed to be.”

“It's blue flavored,” Abbie simply says. Seeing her friend’s quizzical frown, she continues. “Don't think too hard about it. It's just candy. It's not supposed to be deep or important. Part of its charm.”

“Ah, I see,” Crane replies, nodding decisively, his lips now bearing a bluish tint.

Abbie smiles at him, amused by this.

“What?” he asks, puzzled.

She laughs now, and sticks her tongue out in reply showing him her blue tongue. “Your lips are blue.”

“Oh, dear...” He scrubs at his lips with a napkin to no avail.

“Don't worry about it, Crane. It's part of the fun. It'll wear off soon enough,” she says, reaching for another hunk of the sweet treat.

They quietly watch the game for a while. The Mets score. The Brewers score. The Mets get a two-run homerun, and everyone stands and cheers.

They get more beers, for which Crane pays this time.

“What does the pink flavor taste like?” Crane asks, peering at the cotton candy vendor again.

Abbie laughs. “Let's get some hot dogs first. I need some real food, not just candy and beer. Well, real-ish anyway.”

By the end of the game, they have had hot dogs, nachos, soft pretzels, a hot fudge sundae served in a tiny plastic batting helmet (which they shared), and pink cotton candy.

The Mets win.

Crane keeps the tiny souvenir helmet on the fireplace mantel in the cabin as a memento. Each time he passes it, a small smile lifts the corners of his mouth as he remembers the pleasant afternoon spent in the company of his dear friend and partner.

And, the first time he ate cotton candy.


	11. Skin

There is a clatter followed by a muffled exclamation of “Bugger all!” from Abbie's bathroom. She sighs and walks towards the closed door, wondering what damage her partner could have possibly done.

She knocks. “You okay in there, Crane?” she calls. Immediately, the door opens.

“Yes, yes, I'm fine... fine,” Ichabod says, fussing with the sleeves of his jacket. “I just...” he turns back, looking into the bathroom.

Abbie peers around him to see her collection of creams and lotions on the bathroom counter. They appear to have been hastily reset. “Knocked them over, huh?” she asks, ducking around him to tidy them up the way she likes.

“I fear my coat swept them from the countertop,” he admits. “Next time, I shall leave it outside.”

“It's all right. No harm done,” she answers. “They're just lotions. Skin creams. Well, most of them. This one,” she holds up a jar, “is coconut oil, which is for my hair.”

“Fascinating,” he says, leaning down to study each one. He’s seen them in here before, and has even read the labels of some, but is interested in what she has to say about them. “In my day, we had simple soap made from wood ashes and animal fat. Left one's skin feeling rather... raw. Particularly in the cold winter months. We didn't have such things as luxurious moisturizers.”

Abbie leans against the counter. “So, what, you just went around all dry and itchy?”

“Well, oils were used in cases of problematic dryness. But, mostly... yes.” Crane flips open the top of one bottle and sniffs. “Jasmine,” he pronounces.

“Very good,” she smiles.

He puts the bottle back. “If I may ask... why so _many?_ ”

“Each one has its purpose,” she says. “Like I said, that one is for my hair,” she points at the jar of coconut oil again. “This one is for my face,” she taps the top of a smaller bottle with her finger. “The jasmine one is for everyday use...”

“Yes, I recognized it,” he says. He has become quite familiar with that particular scent due to years spent within close proximity of his fellow Witness.

Abbie's not quite sure how to interpret his comment, so she chalks it up to “We spend a lot of time together” and moves on. “This one is for my feet and legs after a hard day of running around chasing demons. It has peppermint in it.”

“Sounds invigorating,” Crane comments, opening and smelling it. “Hmm.”

“It's nice,” she says. “And, _that_ one is the heavy artillery, for when it's January and I'm itchy as hell and ashier than usual because there is absolutely zero moisture in the air,” she picks up a large bottle with a pump top. She dispenses a dollop of thick, white lotion into her palm, then rubs it with the other one for just a moment. “Give me your hands,” she says, holding hers out.

“Oh,” he replies, unthinkingly obeying. She rubs the lotion into his large hands while he watches, interested. “Oh, that is nice.”

“Good, right?” she asks. “Don't worry; it doesn't have a flowery scent or anything.”

He watches her small hands work, massaging the cream into his skin. It's one of the nicest experiences he's had in a while. Once she's satisfied, she gives his hands a pat.

“All done,” Abbie says, rubbing her hands together to absorb the residual lotion.

“Thank you,” Crane answers. “This was most educational. I should like to purchase some for myself when next we are acquiring provisions.”

She nods, always enjoying when he discovers something about this century he _likes_. “Sounds like a plan.” She pauses a moment. “Aren't we supposed to be going to the diner for some supper?”

“Right. Yes, terribly sorry,” he apologizes, absentmindedly rubbing his freshly-lotioned hands together.

Abbie smiles. _I've given him something else to do with his hands now._ “Come on. I feel like breakfast for dinner,” she says, plucking the lapel of his coat as she walks past him.

“They will do that?” Crane asks, intrigued, following her out. “You can order pancakes at six p.m.?”

She laughs. “At some places, yes.” _He does love pancakes._

During their dinner, in which Crane has the aforementioned pancakes along with eggs, hash browns and bacon cooked till nearly burned, he finds his eyes continually drawn to Abbie's skin. Her hands, her face, noting the supple softness. He searches for flaws and finds none. _Modern skin care is truly a wonder. Although, she would likely be just as flawless without…_

“Crane?” Abbie prompts, a forkful of Belgian waffle hovering in midair. A single drop of maple syrup runs down, dangling precariously as it grows fat, then drops onto her plate, unable to fight the pull of gravity. “You okay?”

“Oh. Yes. Sorry. I was miles away,” he hastily says. “Tell me, does having breakfast for dinner mean that one cannot also have dessert?” he asks, wishing to clear his mind of his increasingly-wayward thoughts.

She laughs. “You can totally have dessert. Heck, I've even ordered soup beforehand.” He gives her a strange look. “It was cream of chicken with rice. I'm not made of stone,” she adds.

“Indeed not,” he answers, half smiling, knowing it is her favorite.

Under the table, his fingers unconsciously twitch, wishing to experience the feel of the Lieutenant's skin once again.

_Most definitely not made of stone._


	12. Fruit

“Wait, hold up. You can _juggle_?” Abbie asks, incredulous, staring at her partner as he deftly tosses three oranges in the air, catching and releasing them with ease as they soar in a neat arc in front of him.

“You cannot?” Crane returns, equally incredulous.

Abbie doesn't know if he's joking or not. She folds her arms in front of her chest. “No. I _cannot,_ ” she answers, mimicking his pronunciation.

He stops, catching the last orange so he is holding two in his right hand, the third in his left. “Would you like me to teach you?” He raises an eyebrow at her.

She looks at his hand holding the two oranges. _I could never hold two oranges in one hand._

“We could use something smaller,” he remarks, following her gaze.

“Shut up,” she says, laughing. “And, no, I don't need to learn how to juggle.”

“You're certain?” he asks, holding the fruit aloft and waggling his hands.

She laughs harder now. “Yes, I'm fine.”

“It's fun,” he cajoles, beginning to juggle again.

Abbie watches a minute, then, quick as a flash, reaches out and snags one of the oranges in mid-air.

“Oh!” Crane exclaims, but moves seamlessly into juggling the remaining two with one hand.

She ponders her orange, thinks about peeling it and eating it, but tosses it back to him. He resumes juggling.

“I think the real question here is, 'Why do _you_ know how to juggle?'” she asks.

“Ah, yes. There was often a surplus of free time during the war,” he says, stopping his motions and setting the oranges on Abbie's kitchen table. “Sometimes, we would teach things to one another, just to pass the time. For example, there was a man in our platoon who used to be a circus performer.”

“And, he taught you how to juggle,” she reasons.

“In exchange, I taught him how to write his name,” he replies, nodding.

“Wow,” Abbie said. She had never really thought about the fact that there were soldiers in Crane's war who couldn't read or write.

“Actually, I taught him a great deal more than that,” Crane admits. “I am proud to say he did not die an illiterate.” His face grows sad at the memory.

“I'm sorry, Crane,” she says, surmising the man must have died before Crane did.

“Thank you. He was proud, too. Even got the opportunity to tell me so before the fever and infection took him,” he explains. “He also made me promise to keep working on my juggling.”

Abbie smiles. Then, in a flash of inspiration, she darts away, returning with three hacky-sacks. “More appropriately sized to my hands,” she grins, showing them to her partner. “They're Jenny's. I think. They might be Hawley's actually...”

Crane angles his head at her. “Why the change of heart, Lieutenant?”

She smiles a little. “I just… I know what it means to want to honor a fallen comrade,” she softly says, looking down at the items in her hand. “I thought you might like to pass along the knowledge you gained from him.”

He returns her smile, understanding. “Thank you,” he quietly says. Then, he steps closer to her and plucks one of the beanbags from her hand. He gives it an experimental squeeze. Tosses it in the air once. “Yes,” he says with a decisive nod. “These will do nicely. Now. Hold two in one hand, and one in the other...”


	13. Spaces

He finds her in the back yard, sitting on a swing hanging from a frame.

Ichabod had come to her house, searching her out after she did not show at the cabin. He checked the archives to find them empty. He even braved the possible wrath of Captain Reyes by poking his head into the police station, only to be told that his partner had “called in.”

He surmised this meant Abbie had phoned to inform the Captain she would not be reporting for duty that day. So, he set off for her home, concerned for her well-being.

_Why did she not contact me? Was she simply being respectful of my need to sort things out with Katrina? Or, is there another reason?_

He walks towards the strangely motionless swing, only able to see the top of her dark head peeking over the back of the seat. “Lieutenant?” he quietly calls. “Miss Mills, are you well?”

The sight of her stops him in his tracks. Her eyes, usually so clear and beautiful, are swollen and red. Her normally smooth dark skin looks slightly blotchy, and her cheeks are wet with unchecked tears. She has a blanket around her to guard against the chill, but it has fallen open, likely doing little to keep her warm.

“Abbie...” he breathes, sitting beside her on the swing. His hands flutter a moment, not sure where they should land. He decides to take hers in his. They feel like ice. He holds her small hands inside his much larger ones, rubbing gently, willing some warmth back into them.

“I told them,” Abbie says. Her voice is hoarse and very quiet.

“Mrs. Irving and Miss Macey?” he asks, realizing it is an unnecessary question.

She nods. “It was the most difficult thing I've ever had to do,” she says. Her bleary eyes finally meet his. “And, that's saying a lot.”

He weakly smiles and sets about wrapping the blanket more securely around her. “Indeed,” he agrees.

“They didn't want to believe me, but... they know I would never lie about something like this.”

He nods and moves closer, gently wrapping his arm around her shoulders, still concerned for her health. He has no idea how long she has been out here.

“I didn't stay long... they didn't want me to hang around. Cynthia... she didn't kick me out, exactly, but simply said they needed to be alone.” She sighs. “I know they're not mad at _me_ , but I can't help feeling responsible.”

“We are all responsible, Miss Mills. And, he chose to help us,” Crane finally speaks.

“We convinced him,” Abbie argues.

“He still had a choice. We never would have forced him.”

Abbie nods once. It is a small, but decisive gesture.

They sit, without speaking, for several minutes. The wind blows, and a few leaves tumble across the yard. Abbie shivers involuntarily, and Crane moves even closer, tightening his arm around her. He thinks about suggesting they move inside, but stays silent, letting her words and actions guide them both.

“I miss him,” Abbie whispers.

“As do I.”

Without warning, Abbie's breath hitches in a large sob, and she crumbles, pitching her head forward into her hands. The blanket falls open again, and all Crane can do is hold it around her and rub gentle circles on her back, simply letting her know he is here with her.

“I can't do this,” she rasps, sitting upright. “I... I'm _sick_ of losing people...” She swipes her eyes with the back of her hand. Crane offers her a handkerchief. She takes it with a soft word of thanks. “I'm not naïve enough to go around thinking that life is fair, but... seriously? How much can I be expected to take?” Her voice steadily rises as she gathers steam. “Daddy... Mama... Sheriff Corbin... Frank... How much loss am I expected to endure before I just crumble into dust? Until there are walls so high and strong around my heart that I wind up completely alone because... because I am too afraid to let anyone get close to me? I mean, who's next? Jenny? I already lost her once, I can't lose her again.” She turns to look at her stunned partner, who has been uncharacteristically quiet. “And, what about you? Do you know what would happen to me if you—”

“Abbie.” Crane's voice is quiet, but commanding, his tone identical to the one he used that night in the Masonic cell, just before he drank the poison. He knows all too well what would happen to her if he died, for he harbors the same fear about the possibility of her demise. “I...”

Suddenly, she stands, the blanket dropping to the ground as she stomps away. “Damn it, Crane. Damn it, damn it, _damn it!_ ”

Alarmed, Crane follows. “Abbie—”

She holds up her hand, one finger raised, mimicking a common gesture of his. “No. Don’t say it. Don’t you _dare_ say anything. Your pretty speeches are _not_ going to help right now.”

He instinctively reaches out to her, then drops his hand and straightens his back. “What _will_ help, Miss Mills?” he quietly asks.

She looks up at him and sees nothing but earnest concern on his face. He honestly doesn't know how to help her, much as he wishes to. “I don't know,” she sighs.

Crane bends down and lifts the blanket from the ground. He shakes the leaves and grass off of it, and reaffixes it around her shoulders. _She looks so small. So… youthful._ “You should go inside, Lieutenant. You will catch a chill.”

“I don't really care,” Abbie says, but turns towards the house. Something about her tone gives him pause, but he rallies and rushes to open the door for her. She stops on the threshold and says, “I'd like to be alone, Crane.”

“But...”

“I know,” she says, placing her hand on his chest. “You asked what will help me. Right now, it will help me to be alone.” He opens his mouth to protest, but she continues. “I know you want to be here for me, Crane, and I appreciate it, but _I wan_ _t_ _to be alone_.”

He presses his mouth into a firm line, but curtly nods. “Very well. Please... stay in contact, Miss Mills.” He steps back onto the porch and allows the door to close in front of him.

Crane stands there a moment, alone, not wanting to be, and trying not to be stung by Abbie turning him away. After a few seconds spent staring at the solid barrier between him and his partner, he sighs and walks down the stairs, his footsteps heavy.

xXx

Three days pass. Abbie doesn't answer Crane's calls, but texts him “I'm fine” once and “I'm okay” another time. That's all.

He doesn't believe her, but doesn't press.

On the third day, Jenny calls him. “Crane,” she says, her voice quiet, as though she is trying not to be heard, “can you come over here?”

“Where do you mean?” he asks, his heart suddenly pounding a little harder.

“Abbie’s house. Please, come over.”

“Miss Jenny, your sister has made it clear she wishes to be alone,” he replies.

“I don't care what her _wishes_ are. You need to come over here, because she's not responding to me. At all,” she says.

Crane's breath catches. He's never heard Jenny sound so worried. “I will be along presently,” he says, quickly grabbing his coat from his narrow cot in the corner of the Archives.

When he arrives at Abbie's house, he hesitates for just a moment before knocking. Even so, he knocks quietly, almost too quietly to be heard.

The door immediately opens. “Crane, thank God,” Jenny says. “I'm at a loss. I'm at a loss, and I hate it. She's always been the one to take care of me, and now...” she stops, shaking her head and blinking rapidly. “I'm hoping this 'bond' or whatever the two of you have will help bring her out of this. I... I would stay, but I got a lead on those books we've been trying to find, and...”

“Oh, goodness, yes, by all means, go retrieve those volumes,” Crane says, his voice suddenly higher and louder as his mind is yanked back to their mission against evil. The stretch of quiet days following the deaths of Frank, Henry, and Moloch had lulled them both into a feeling of completion, and while Abbie seemed secure that their battle was over, Crane was not so certain. However, he has been so preoccupied with concern over Abbie's well-being he had nearly forgotten to keep looking for signs of demons. “I will stay here with Miss Mills.”

“Promise?” Jenny asks, gripping his arm almost painfully in her strong grasp. “No matter how long it takes?”

“You have my word, Miss Jenny. My mission is here, with your sister,” he answers. “Nowhere else.”

Jenny gives him a long look, then nods and brushes past him, grabbing her coat from a nearby chair. “Abbie's in her room,” she says before disappearing through the door.

Crane removes his coat and hangs it up in Abbie's front hallway closet. Then, knowing her preference, he steps out of his boots before fully walking into her house. He quietly pads through the living room in search of his partner's bedroom. Cautiously, he peers inside. The television is on, the volume low. He recognizes the show as one of the numerous home improvement programs on the Home and Garden channel, and while Abbie is looking at the screen, she doesn't appear to actually be _watching_ it. There is a plate on the nightstand with half a sandwich and enough crumbs to suggest she had consumed the other half at some point. Beside it is a glass of water, two-thirds full.

He steps into the room. “Miss Mills,” he softly says. There is a chair beside the bed, and he sits. Her eyes flicker to him for just a moment, then return to the television. She is wearing flannel pants and a hoodie, and she is holding a decorative pillow against her chest.

They sit in relative silence, the only noise coming from the television.

“I told you I was fine,” Abbie finally says.

“Miss Jenny disagrees,” Crane replies. After a thoughtful pause, he adds, “As do I.” He has a whole litany of questions he'd like to ask her, but they jam in his throat, each one piling on top of the other, so he says nothing, hoping his presence is enough for now.

In truth, seeing his partner like this has rattled him more than he anticipated. _She has always been the strong one. My rock, my anchor, my beacon_.

The silence is heavy in the room. Crane acutely feels it pressing down on his chest as the seconds stretch into minutes. The sound of the television is a nonsensical hum, merely quiet noise, doing nothing to ease the stillness. He opens his mouth several times to speak, but can never decide on the right words. Finally, after several long minutes that feel more like an hour, Abbie speaks.

“I keep seeing his body. Over in the churchyard. Then, on the pew after we brought him in. And then, in that... poor excuse for a grave we dug.” Her voice breaks though the silence like a knife; a clear bell chiming in the stillness. “At least, it was consecrated ground,” she absently adds. “Even though the church was abandoned... it was better than some random spot in the forest... I guess.” Abbie picks at the throw pillow, her strong, small fingers restless. “I keep playing the whole... thing over and over in my head... could we have done anything differently? The sword... there had to have been another way...” She reaches up with one hand and wipes her face, the gesture almost annoyed, like she's weary of crying. Finally, she turns her head and looks at Crane. He stares back, his eyes filled with concern and quiet restraint. “I remember I once offered you money to stop talking. Do I need to make the same offer to draw some words from you now?”

“I am sorry, Abbie,” he says. He opens his mouth, closes it, sighs, and leans forward on his elbows, lacing his fingers together. He looks down at them for a moment to gather his thoughts. “Please. Do not mistake my reticence for apathy. I know I am often given to speeches of encouragement, attempting to bolster you when you are flagging, but... I remained silent to allow you to say your fill without my words interfering and to honor your wishes from three days ago. I am... no longer certain that what I have to say will have the desired effect.” He pauses, looking into her glassy eyes. “You so rarely speak your feelings, so I did not wish to risk interrupting your... flow,” he continues. He reaches over and gently takes her hand in his. “I may... blather on at times, but I am always here to listen, Abbie. Please know this. You need not always keep your heart locked away, hiding your hurts from the world. From me.”

Abbie blinks, and a few more tears escape. She reaches down at her side with her free hand and lifts a small white cloth to her face, dabbing her tears with the handkerchief Crane gave her when last they saw one another. She takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. “I'm so _tired_ of having my heart broken by loss.” She huffs a mirthless laugh, her hand dropping back to the bed with a soft _thump_. “I sound so selfish... Cynthia and Macey are without their husband and father, and here I sit, feeling sorry for myself like they don't have—”

Crane lightly squeezes her hand. “Do not diminish your own pain, Miss Mills,” he says. “You have every right to your grief. We all do. We all loved Captain Irving in our own ways. He may not have been your husband or your father, but he was your _friend._ Your compatriot. A soldier in this battle, whose death was not in vain.”

“He _sti_ _ll_ _died_ _!_ ” she exclaims, tired of talk about heroics and their mission. “The fact that Henry and Moloch are also gone is not going to bring Frank back!” She crumples again, pulling her hand from his and covering her face with the handkerchief.

Crane moves to sit beside her on the bed, wrapping his arms around her until she leans against his shoulder. “I know it is poor comfort, but it is all we have,” he says, his voice strange and tight as his emotions begin to engulf him as well. He takes a deep breath, cementing his resolve. He has already mourned for the fallen Captain, and has chosen to honor the man's memory by renewing his commitment to their cause, having realized his focus had been starting to drift.

As though Abbie is reading his thoughts, she says, “Don't start in with the 'we need to honor his memory by pressing on' stuff.” He simply squeezes her in response, and she sighs. “I know perfectly well that's what he would want. He's probably up there wishing he could come down here and... I don't know, tell me to get it together because this war might not be over.” She looks up at him. “I know all that in my head.”

“But, you wish someone would tell your heart,” he finishes, a sad, understanding smile on his face.

Abbie nods and sits up straight, and Crane removes his arm so she can lean back against the headboard again. “He never laughed at me. Never judged. Never made me feel foolish or 'less than'. He treated Jenny and me with respect.” She looks up at her partner. “Even though he knew. He told me he pulled my files shortly after he arrived. _All_ my files. He knew everything about the incident in the woods and never once judged me – or Jenny – for it.” Her voice is calmer now. No more tears are falling.

“He was an immensely good man,” Crane agrees. “Even when he thought I was mad... I never felt as though he was looking down at me.”

“Reyes is a good captain, but... she isn't him,” she says, laughing at how obvious that sentence is in so many ways.

“Indeed not,” he agrees, chuckling with her.

They sit in silence again for a while. Abbie hugs the pillow to her chest, then rests her head against Crane's shoulder.

“Most of my life, I've had these... empty spaces around me. Empty spaces where people I have lost once were. Now, I think I leave those spaces there to _keep_ people from getting too close to me. So, I don't get hurt when they inevitably leave,” Abbie says.

Crane slowly nods, understanding, but hoping she is about to change that.

“I don't think it's the right way to live,” she continues. “I need to let a few people in, or I'll die alone.” She pauses. “Not alone. Lonely,” she corrects.

“I realize I haven't exactly been the easiest person with whom to be around of late,” he ventures, pausing with a sigh as memories of how he has allowed himself to be distracted from their cause flash through his brain, “but I would consider it a tremendous honor if you would allow me into one of those spaces, as I have no intention of leaving you.” He looks over, wishing he could take her hand in his again, but she is still clutching her pillow.

“I'll take it under advisement,” she answers, smiling up at him. It is a real, true smile, and it warms his heart. “And, I don't plan on leaving you high and dry either, Ichabod,” she adds, reaching over and patting his hand.

He seizes the opportunity, turning his hand to close his fingers around hers. “Thank you, Abbie,” he answers. After a moment, he says, “I do realize none of your loved ones _chose_ to leave you, and I just made a promise to remain at your side…”

“I know, Crane. I know,” she answers, squeezing his hand. “I know they didn’t. We both just made promises that may be impossible to keep, but thank you for saying it anyway. Just… hearing the words helps. Even if something is clearly already true, sometimes it is nice... very nice... to hear the words.”

He nods, understanding. After a moment, he says, “I am certain they are all proud of you. Your parents. Sheriff Corbin. Captain Irving. And, so am I.”

“Thank you,” she whispers in reply, her and Jenny's encounter with their mother still remarkably fresh in her mind. And, her heart. She can still see the pride and love in her mama's eyes, and knows Crane's words are true.

He leans down and kisses the top of her head, an uncharacteristic show of affection. Abbie allows herself to sag against his strong frame, letting him support her. _Just this once,_ she thinks, but knows deep down it is a lie, that she will allow herself to be vulnerable in his presence again, and next time, it will likely be easier.

“Have you any tea, Miss Mills?” he asks a moment later as she straightens her posture.

“Yeah,” she answers, moving her pillow aside as she makes to stand. “I'll make us some.”

He tugs her hand, stilling her. “It was not my intention for _you_ to be the one to prepare it,” he says. “I will make it for us.”

She smiles again. “I'd like that,” she says. “Let me know if you can't find something.”

“I am sure your kitchen cannot be that complicated,” he counters, squeezing her hand before releasing it. He stands, but pauses near the door. “You are feeling better?” he asks.

“I am,” she says. “Thank you, Ichabod.”

Crane offers her a small bow. “No, thank _you,_ Abbie. For sharing with me. For everything you have done for me. I have been remiss in telling you that you are truly a remarkable woman, and I could not have asked for a better partner in this war.”

Abbie shyly smiles and looks down, slightly uncomfortable with his praise. “Go make the tea, Crane,” she deflects.

He bows again, a small, knowing smile on his face. As he turns away, she speaks again.

“I'm happy to have someone as amazing as you as my partner, too,” she quietly says.

He pauses just a moment, smiles, and continues on to the kitchen.

_She will persevere._

_We will be o-ka_ _y._


	14. Wal-Mart

“Miss Mills, I require some more fluid for the Swiffer machine,” Crane says, eyes scanning the list in his hands as he walks beside her. She navigates the cart around an oblivious young mother, staring at the apples as though they are keeping secrets from her.

“Crane, how many times have you used that thing?” Abbie asks, grabbing a bag of clementines and setting it into the cart. _He likes these._

“Apologies, Lieutenant. I do enjoy using the Swiffer,” he admits.

“Yeah, well, the juice for it costs money, you know,” she reminds him. He has been on the SHPD payroll for a while now, but his income is still rather meager. If his time was all his own, he would have found a job at the Historical Society or Town Library by now, but unfortunately, his Witness duties limit his job options.

“Forgive me. I will try to limit my Swiffer-ing activities in future,” he says, frowning. He picks up an avocado, scowls at it, and sets it back down.

“Avocado,” she says.

“Yes, I am aware,” he answers, following her out of the produce department. “But, are _you_ aware that the name 'avocado' comes from the Nahuatl – or Aztec – word for a man's...” he trails off, raising a saucy eyebrow.

Abbie looks back at the avocados and identifies the part of the male anatomy to which her partner is referring. She laughs then, loud enough to draw a few curious glances. “Nice,” she finishes, picking out a package of ground beef and putting it into the cart.

“I do enjoy our outings to Wal-Mart, Miss Mills,” Crane comments after a few moments. “Oh, corn dogs,” he adds, plucking a box from the freezer case.

“Are they on the list?” she teasingly asks, raising her eyebrows. He flourishes the list and points to the words “corn dogs” written in his florid handwriting. She snorts and keeps moving.

They traverse the aisles, loading up on things they each need, including the Swiffer refill fluid and pads. As usual, Crane bounces back and forth between praising the year-round availability and convenience of modern shopping centers and decrying the exorbitant costs and taxes applied to various items. Occasionally, a curious child will stare, or even point at him, but he takes such occurrences in stride. Many of the citizens of Sleepy Hollow have seen him around, usually in the company of the pretty police lieutenant, and hardly ever notice his eccentric attire and manner anymore.

“How are you set for toiletries?” Abbie asks.

Crane consults his list. “I require toothpaste – I'd like the cinnamon flavor again, I found I prefer it to the mint – and more of that body wash.”

“Okay,” she replies, steering through the clothing departments in the center of the store to cross to the health and beauty section.

“Oh! Miss Mills, may we peruse the men's socks? I'm afraid the few pair I have are... that is, if I darn them once more, they will consist almost entirely of stitched thread with very little of the original cotton,” he says as they pass the men's department.

“Sure. You really didn't have to let them go that far, you know,” she answers, turning the cart. “Here, try these,” she says, plucking a 10-pack of socks from the rack.

“Ten pair!” he exclaims. “I do not need _that_ many.”

“Oh, come on, I have _twic_ _e_ that many, and in different colors besides,” she says, taking the package and dropping it into the cart. “Corbin used to wear this kind. Said they really held up.”

“Very well,” he relents. He has occasionally borrowed an article or two of clothing from the cabin's former owner, always first clearing it with Abbie. Her former mentor was a tall man, like himself, but much broader, so the items he borrowed were limited to an occasional t-shirt and, once, a pair of the aforementioned socks.

Abbie sighs. “I really should go through the personal things he left in the cabin. Give you some more room for your things.”

“Do not feel obligated, Lieutenant,” Crane says. “I know it will be a difficult task for you, and I truly do not need a lot of room.”

“No, it's been almost two years. It's time,” she insists, convincing herself more than him. “You know you can stay there as long as you like, right?”

“Yes,” he answers. “Thank you. I have grown quite fond of the little home.”

“It suits you,” she says, guiding her cart to the toothpaste aisle, where she easily finds the product Crane requested.

“Your home is quite nice as well,” he allows, “but, I fear it may take me some time to _fully_ acclimate to all the modern conveniences.” He picks up a bath puff and squeezes it a few times in his large hand before dropping it into the cart.

Abbie chuckles at him, her walking contradiction.

“I read it is good to regularly replace those,” Crane explains. “All those crevices are a... hot-bed for bacteria, and—”

“Yes, I know,” she interrupts, grabbing one for herself as well. “Okay, Mr. Not Yet Fully Acclimatized, what kind of _body was_ _h_ do you want?” she asks, an impish grin on her face.

He merely gives her a sideways look, eyebrow aloft, then turns his attention to the selection of men's body wash bottles in front of him. “Hmm...”

They both start plucking bottles down and smelling them, making assessments.

“Hmm.”

“No.”

“Smell this one.”

“Oh, I like this.”

“Let me see.”

“Eh.”

“You don't like this one?” Crane asks, looking at the bottle in his hand.

“It's fine,” Abbie answers.

“Which do you prefer then?”

“I like this one,” she holds one out to him.

He takes and smells it. “That _i_ _s_ nice,” he says. He returns his choice to the shelf and places hers into the cart.

“You could have gotten the one you prefer,” she says, secretly pleased he went with her choice.

“Ah, but _you_ are the person with whom I spend the vast majority of my time,” he explains, eyes carefully trained forward as they walk to the registers. “It would not do for me to... offend your olfactory senses.” He peeks down at her over his collar, not wishing to give away that he would have put whatever scent she chose for him into the cart without question.

She smiles and steers the cart into one of the checkout lines, standing behind a young mother with a sleeping infant in a child seat.

“Well, I thank you for your consideration,” she answers, reaching over to squeeze his hand.

He holds it just a moment before releasing it. “No, thank _you_ , Miss Mills. As always.”

“You're welcome, Crane,” she replies. “Should we order some pizza? We can have it delivered to the cabin, and if we time it right, we'll get there at the same time.”

“Oh, yes, that is an excellent plan,” he says, helping load items onto the belt. “May we get pineapple and ham?”

“We'll get _you_ a pineapple and ham. I want pepperoni,” she says.

“Very well. You may have your loathsome pepperoni as long as you do not try to convince me to try it yet again,” he answers.

“Thanks for the permission,” she teases.

“Movie night?” he suggests, looking for a reason to spend the evening in her company.

Her face lights up, and it warms his heart. “Yes. Oh! We can watch _The Lion King._ You'll love it. It's like _Hamlet._ With animals.”

“Is this another offering from Mr. Disney?” he asks. She nods, and he smiles. “Excellent.”

“Order the pizza, Crane,” she says, poking the pocket where she knows he keeps his phone.

“Your wish is my command, Lieutenant.”


	15. Sunset

A fish jumps, followed by a glittering splash and ripples spreading in concentric circles across the glassy surface of the lake. The sun is low in the sky, painting it in rich pinks and oranges, edging the clouds in fire.

“Did you see that?” Abbie's voice is quiet but slightly breathy with excitement over seeing the fish.

“Yes,” Crane answers, smiling down at her. “Occasionally, they will do that at dusk, catching the insects that come out and hover low over the water—”

She softly chuckles and he looks down at her, eyebrow raised. “You just can't be quiet and enjoy the moment without having to analyze and explain every detail, can you?” she asks, her dark eyes twinkling in the fading light.

He purses his lips, trying not to return her impish smile. “You are jesting with me, Miss Mills,” he says, realizing.

“Yes and no,” she admits, slipping her petite hand into his. His fingers close around it automatically. It is cool and her skin is silken. “I think it would be good for you to learn how to simply sit back and not think about everything. Enjoy the jumping fish for what it is: a little surprise. A little flash of the unexpected. Don't think about _why_ the fish jumped. Just enjoy the flash of silver, the soft splash, and the ripples of the water.”

As if on cue, a large bird plunges into the lake, disappearing completely as it dives for food. Crane feels Abbie squeeze his hand and watches as her eyes stay glued to the surface, waiting for it to emerge. A full minute later, the bird shoots up out of the water and into the forest.

Abbie smiles, exhaling. She looks up at him. “Okay, you can tell me what it was. I know it's killing you.”

“Great cormorant,” he says. “Like the jumping fish, looking for food.”

She nods.

“I did enjoy the poetic grace of the dive, the anticipation of the wait, and the... release of the bird's return to the skies,” he admits. He looks down at her, and she is still smiling up at him. “It was quite beautiful,” he says, his voice much softer.

He gazes down into her eyes. There is another quiet splash from the lake, but neither turns to look. The world around them melts away. The air grows colder as the sun sinks lower, but they pay no heed. They barely feel the hardness of the rough-hewn wooden bench beneath them. A hidden fox barks, but neither hear it.

She leans up and kisses him, the fingers of her free hand wrapping tightly around his lapel, keeping him close.

As if he has any intention of leaving. He brings his hand up and gently cups her cheek. Right when he moves his head to deepen the kiss, she pulls away.

“I... I don't know why I... I'm...” she stammers, coming to her senses.

He gently strokes her cheek with his thumb. “Just enjoy the moment without analyzing every detail,” he whispers before returning his lips to hers.


End file.
